On conflict and not sleeping.

Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not the let the sun go down on your anger.

So that thing that Paul said, he's right. I don't know if everyone is like me. But when there is unresolved conflict, there is conflict when it comes to sleep. I've often thought that it comes as a blessing in disguise, God keeping things on a short leash if you will, not letting it get buried. I've spent a lot of years burying thing but a couple of years ago I began to sense this inability to do so anymore.

Paul knew that anger burns a hole in your heart or in my case, my stomach. But then again, the stomach/general gut area was understood to be more the core of the person in Paul's time. And though we pray and fight it and try to maintain the belief that it's a misunderstanding and that there is no real animosity between parties, when there is no communication to confirm such things, it's a constant battle to not allow the hurt to turn into hatred and bitterness. We battle to believe the best, but without actually talking to one another, we too easily turn towards believing the worst.

We fight to curb our passive-aggressive tendencies. But to do so means balancing voicing our hurt so that we move toward one another in a way that will bring life and truth and growth through the pain; not destruction, not a surface assuaging of the anguish that lives underneath. Relationships are dangerous. The great Pat Benetar said it well, “Love is a battlefield.” To maintain them we have to live in truth, not in lies. Live in grace, not in condemnation. Live in a type of love that is willing to sacrifice, to put others first. The type of love that is willing to own one's sin yet isn't afraid to call others out, as well.

It's hard stuff. Dangerous stuff. But when done well, it can change us. And save us. And maybe even let us sleep tonight. I'll let you know how that goes.

I leave off tonight with some lyrics that didn't make much sense to me until I learned that they were about the writer's relationship with his brother. As much as I dislike quoting songs everyone knows (unfortunately I have a bit of the elitist in me, sorry), I do reserve the right for the popular to sometimes be the profound. And tonight, these words finally make sense and feel particularly poignant.

I never knew that everything was falling through
That everyone I knew was waiting on a cue
To turn and run when all I needed was the truth
But that's how it's got to be
It's coming down to nothing more than apathy
I'd rather run the other way than stay and see
The smoke and who's still standing when it clears

Let's rearrange
I wish you were a stranger I could disengage
Just say that we agree and then never change
Soften a bit until we all just get along
But that's disregard
Find another friend and you discard
As you lose the argument in a cable car
Hanging above as the canyon comes between

And suddenly I become a part of your past
I'm becoming the part that don't last
I'm losing you and its effortless

Without a sound we lose sight of the ground
In the throw around
Never thought that you wanted to bring it down
I won't let it go down till we torch it ourselves

And everyone knows I'm in over my head

Mercy on Language

Lately I find that though I have much to say, I find little desire to write. It's as if it is a welling up time, throwing things into the stew pot which are not yet cooked but one day will be. Until then, a poem introduced to me by my dear friend, Bono.

God's Laughter, by Brendan Kennelly

Someone had mercy on language
changed it into something else I can touch
I can touch
grow to love, murmured Ace
as he heard the stranger talking
of how laughter comes from God.

Who, hearing words from his own mouth
and from others, cannot stop himself
laughing or freezing in terror

at sound bubbling up out of infinite
emptiness? Well fill it up with pride
and let vanity strut along for the ride.

When the ride peters out at the edge
of small daring, then that other sound
opens.

This is the sound of God's laughter,
like nothing on earth, it fills
earth from grave to mountain-top,
lingers there a while, then like a great
bird spreading its wings for home or somewhere
like home,
heads out into silence,
gentle and endless, longing to understand

children, killers of children, killers. Mercy. Silence. Sound.
Mercy. Sound. Word. Sound. Change, there must be
change. There is. Say flesh. Say love. Say dust.
Say laughter. Who will call the fled bird back?
Stand. Kneel. Curse. Pray. Give us this day
our daily laughter. Let it show the way.
Thank God someone has mercy
on the words we find we must say.

It's almost 3am...

The Sleep Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–61) OF all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward into souls afar,

Along the Psalmist’s music deep,

Now tell me if that any is

For gift or grace surpassing this—

“He giveth His beloved, sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved?

The hero’s heart to be unmoved,

The poet’s star-tun’d harp to sweep,

The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,

The monarch’s crown to light the brows?—

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say

Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!

O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delved gold, the wailers heap!

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!

God strikes a silence through you all,

And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap:

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved, sleep.